He had another birthday. Eleven.

I love this kid of mine. He's such a fine young man. He likes silly bands and poker. Monopoly and Wii. He has bravely embarked on this new adventure called school and handled it like a pro. So far, at least. He has lots of questions about things. He always wants to know more about history and science. He's always moving...his body seems to take up a lot of space. He's still full of snuggles, as willing to climb on my lap as he ever was, more so in some ways.

He's full of anxiety these days too. Needing lots of reassurance about, well, just about everything. He does not want to grow up. (He won't turn down those birthday presents, though!) I have to keep reminding him that I like this growing-up kid. I like the way we can hang out and the conversations we can have. (Our much shorter commute just flies by.) And yet, when we were in New York (and I know, I haven't said a thing about our trip to New York yet, or our finished kitchen, or how we spent our summer vacation...) and he would trail behind me complaining about the walking or the heat or how he needed a hot dog RIGHT! NOW! I was reminded of how small he still is. Just a kid.

But eleven? Oh man.

Happy Birthday, to my dear, dear son. My one and only.